Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters in the Harry Potter books

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters in the Harry Potter books. J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter characters, places, etc. mentioned from the book series.

Summary: He was a living weapon with a mind of his own, and he never let people forget that.

Warning: Sex, Violence, Dark Themes, Language,

Pairings: Harry/Severus/Harry, Harry/Draco, Harry/Severus/Draco with side pairings of Ron/Hermione,

Living Weapon

I am their living weapon, trained and honed to perfection not only by extensive training, but also by too many great expectations. I am their tool to the destruction of evil; a wicked madman and his followers who insist on purging the world of the 'unclean.' I am their instrument, easily played and manipulated. They pluck my strings – for I am their violin – and I am their Golden One, their Chosen One. I am the end result of a struggle to make the perfect song, the perfect warrior. I am their device, the one they throw into the thick of things because I am the weapon that will save them all. I am a means to an end, to a period of destruction and death, and when my purpose is served I will no longer be useful for I am only a weapon, and weapons are only useful if there is something to fight. Will there be something to fight?

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Dependence; the state of being dependent, as for support

They all depend on me for one thing or another. The light side depends on me to fight and save them all from the horrible existence Voldemort presents. The dark side depends on me to die, plain and simple. Sometimes I think I prefer the latter to the former, but the good little Golden Boy can't have such thoughts. I am the living weapon they all depend on, after all. I must be the epitome of light and righteousness. They depend on me to be so.

They depend on me to be their solace. I am supposed to comfort them when it all gets to be too much. Some of them just want words – even empty ones – to renew their hope and push away their despair. This, I can give readily, for empty words have become a talent of mine. It will be alright, I say to them, when I know that any one of them could die tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. It will be over soon. When in truth, I don't know when – if ever – it will be over, but they cling to those words. They take them in and let them give them hope, because they were uttered by their Golden One, their Chosen One, and he will save them all. They depend on words to take away the pain.

Some want to be held and touched by me. I am the one who will save them all, and a simple touch to the shoulder or elbow, or a brief hug will give them the strength they believe that will make it all go away. The pain and despair and death will all go away with a single touch from their weapon, their icon, their Chosen One, or so they believe. This, I am not as eager to do, but I do it all the same. It's all a false hope they receive, false strength they get, but it makes them feel like it will all be okay. Sometimes I feel like crushing that hope, telling them that touching me will do nothing for them, that my words will do nothing, because they are too weak and lazy to do anything for themselves. But that isn't their Golden Boy, and he doesn't speak such cynical words so I refrain from saying them.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if they can see it in my eyes because they shy away from looking into them. I wonder can they see the depth of accusation and bitterness, coldness and cynicism that has been bred from what I was forced to become for them. Can they see that I hold no more kindness for them, that I hold no positive feelings for the world any longer? Can they see that if I was so inclined, that I'd let them all burn in the hell they that refused to stop, and would, instead, put a boy – now a man – up to the task? Can they see that I would let them all die, if I was so inclined? Maybe so, and maybe that is the reason none look me in the eye. Maybe they are ashamed? Maybe they are afraid? Maybe they just don't care about what they created, as long as the job they created it for is done?

Dependence breeds cowards, and that is what the majority of them are. They are too cowardly to stand on their own, and decide, instead, to ruin a young boy's life to keep from doing anything themselves. Complete dependence is a dangerous thing, for it breeds laziness among people, and that laziness could very well destroy a population worse than anything else. And the Wizarding World is experiencing this the hard way.

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Understanding; the quality or condition of one who understands

There are few I can speak to anymore, who will understand what I say. There are few who will let me speak my mind and not shy away from the venomous words that come forth from my mouth. There are few who understand what I have become, but those few do understand, and that is all that matters. There are those who understand the living weapon, who shouldn't – but does – have a mind of its own. There are those who understand the person I have become, the person they – the world – created and that is a small blessing among the chaos that surrounds me.

Ron and Hermione don't understand it, but they don't question it either. They are too ashamed/afraid/uncaring to looking into my eyes as the others – the ones who understand – are not. They give me the small pleasure of being around those who do understand, even if they – themselves – do not. I have not burned the bridges of our friendship; they were my first friends after all, and some things are just harder to replace. Instead I have altered it. I'm still their friend, and I still talk to them, but they know that they can't give me something that I desperately need: understanding. They know and they accept, even if they don't particularly like it. They owe me and they know it.

I found that understanding in the most unlikely of places, but I wasn't as surprised as I probably would have been before I changed. Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, and the small faction of Slytherins who have decided to side against Voldemort. I won't say they are on our side, or the light side, because they are not, and there is no use saying any differently. But I have come to find that they understand me in a way that Ron and Hermione and others don't, while at the same time not understanding other parts of me at all. But its okay, because no one understands anyone fully and if someone understood me that much I'd be fucking speechless and wary of their sanity.

But Severus has helped in training me, and by that I mean he helped with teaching me what I needed to know to fight Voldemort and his Death Eaters. At first we didn't get along at all, but I hadn't risen to any of his bait or insults and that confused him, as well as annoyed him I believe. I saw no point in doing so anymore; it wasn't worth it, just like so many other things. I remember when I first really talked to the man. I think he had been surprised by what I said, even if he didn't show it. It had been sixth year, near the middle of it.

1

I had been standing out in the rain in the late evening, just standing and letting the water soak me through with no care to anything else. I had been keeping myself hidden away somewhere all day, and knew that many were frantic to find me. I didn't care though. When it had started to rain just after what would have been dinner, I finally left my little haven and ventured outside. I've been standing in the rain ever since with my head tilted back, feeling each droplet hit me with small 'splat' sounds. I had been concerned about being left alone earlier, but now I don't hold much worry about being found.

"Potter!" the bellow came from behind me, but I didn't turn around. I already knew who it was by the voice. It was Severus Snape; potions professor, Order spy, and one of my magical trainers. He stormed in front of me and glared into my eyes with his cold, black ones. "Do you have any idea the whole staff has been looking for you all day? Do you not care that your little disappearing acts," he sneered, eyes narrowed dangerously. "has caused many to become frantic, you insolent brat?"

He was angry, I could tell that easily, but his anger didn't affect me. Not anymore, at least. I looked at him, looked directly into the black eyes as the rain continued to pelt me. I noticed he wasn't getting wet, and figured he'd cast a charm to prevent that.

"No," I said simply, calmly, and continued to look at him intensely. The briefest flash of surprise lit his eyes, I think, but it was gone too fast to really tell. He was back to glaring at me, his mouth in a tight line and his eyes once again narrowed.

"What did you say?" he hissed quietly, trying to intimidate me with his stance, his stare, but it wasn't happening. I simply stared back emotionlessly.

"I said 'no', I don't care if people were frantic with my absence," I replied shamelessly, feeling no need to lie to the man, to put up the mask of the good little Gryffindor at that moment. It was as if the rain was some type of truth serum.

"Oh? So you're too good to let people know where you are going to be, in case of an emergency? You're too arrogant for your own good, Potter, just like you're pathetic father and godfather," Snape spat viciously. I couldn't help it, I laughed at what he said causing another flare of surprise – and it was definitely surprise, as it was there a bit longer. I think he expected me to react in anger.

"Then maybe that is what will kill me someday, hmm?" I asked, amused. I didn't give him the chance to reply, though. "And they're only worried; because they want to make sure their weapon is within knowledgeable distance." I said with mild bitterness. I loved the rain and the way it felt, and it seemed to be keeping my emotions even duller than usual.

Snape's brows arched at this, and I looked at him briefly, wondering absently if his hair was really as greasy as it looked. I had an urge to touch it that I ignored completely. I doubt the man would approve at all.

"Do you believe yourself as such?" Snape asked. His tone was even, giving nothing away.

"A weapon? Yes. What else am I to them? An icon? Yes, I am that too, but within that icon I am still merely a weapon; a tool of power that will be used as a means to an end. Surely, you, Professor Snape, can see that?" I said, matching my tone to his. Snape was a Slytherin, and surely – surely – he could see what I have been too blind to see up until recently.

Snape remained silent, but stared at me intensely. I stared back. I could feel the droplets of rain as they dropped onto my skin, and then trickled down my body. I could feel the slight wind that had picked up, and it was a bit chill, but nothing I couldn't take.

"That's a rather interesting thing to hear coming from a Gryffindor such as you, Potter," Snape drawled, still looking at me. I had the distinct feeling he was sizing me up, trying to calculate everything out. His black eyes were fixed on me, staring at me sharply, and I decided that was exactly what the man was doing.

"And that's where we let stereotypes take over," I said, shaking my head and knowing I have done much the same thing. I tilted my head back and stared up into the raining sky. "We are divided into these four houses and automatically we think we know a person just because they're in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin. We don't, though. The traits that put us in our houses are only a partof who we are as a whole. I've finally realized that, though I would say I did so a little too late. Even you, Snape, are guilty of falling into the trap of stereotyping."

There was silence after what I said, and I was tempted to look at Snape to see if the man was angry or thinking. I didn't, though, and continued to gaze at the sky. A summer of reflection and brooding will do a lot to a person. Left alone – basically – to my own devices, most the time all I had was my thoughts to keep me company, besides Hedwig, of course. Thinking, I have come to find, is a dangerous thing. I spent all of last summer thinking about things. The war, which led to thoughts of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Sirius and my parents, Snape and Malfoy, and my friends were many things that kept my mind occupied. Reevaluation of myself and those around me has put many things into perspective for me.

"That is probably the most intelligent thing I have ever heard you say, Potter," Snape said evenly. I smirked, and then turned to look at him.

"No, it's probably the only intelligent thing you were willing to hear. Stereotyping, Snape, that's what I was saying," I said calmly, looking at the man steadily. Snape looked thoughtful for a moment, before he turned away from me to gaze off somewhere. There was silence for a long time, and for that period I just enjoyed the simplicity of being soaked by the rain.

"We will go and inform the Headmaster and your Head of House that you have been found, and then you will accompany me to my quarters. We will talk, Potter," Snape said finally, or more like commanded. I looked at him, and he looked back, daring me to challenge him on it.

"And if I said no?" I asked, more curious than anything else.

"I don't believe I'm giving you a choice, Potter," he drawled smoothly.

"There is always a choice, Snape, whether right or wrong, whether it's a choice we want to make or not. There is always a choice," I countered, looking at him challengingly. His face hardened, and he seemed to be looking through me for a moment, before he focused back on me.

"You're looking for someone to understand you, Potter, whether you realize it or not. I would say you won't find it amongst your Gryffindor associates. They won't comprehend what you are thinking or feeling. A stereotype though it may be, I believe I am right in this instance," Snape said simply. But I did realize I was looking for understanding, I just wasn't going to actively search it out. I looked to Snape and nodded, and he nodded back. He turned in a flare of black robes and began heading back to the castle. I smiled faintly, before following behind him. This would prove to be an interesting night, I was sure of it.

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After that night, Severus and I spent many nights together. Sometimes we just sat quietly together and sometimes we talked, waxing philosophical of anything and everything. He let me drink alcohol occasionally that he always provided. Within him, I found the understanding I'd been inactively seeking, and I'm sure he found something within me, though I'm not sure exactly what. But, we were by no means friends. Acquaintances, yes. Even reluctant companions would be more fitting than that of the term friends. We did, however, form a strange kind of bond. I couldn't have said then, what I thought would come of it, as it was still too new and – yes – raw, to make a guess. But in private, Severus and I were slightly different towards each other. But Severus was only one part of the equation. Draco Malfoy was the other.

Sixth year, I had basically ignored the blond Slytherin and all his attempts to get under my skin. Like Severus that year, I had decided it wasn't worth it and that I had better things to do with my time than fight with Draco. He wasn't a threat – at least in my eyes. He was just an annoying bully, trying to intimidate people, and I was through with it, but he was a little more vehement that year and it had a lot to do with his father being put away. He was angry and even more resentful towards me. And it annoyed and angered him even more that I wouldn't respond. But Malfoy was an irritating little bastard who wouldn't take the hint, and soon went from vitriolic words to outright violence, both magical and not. If he wasn't trying to hex me, he was trying to beat my face in.

I very quickly grew tired of it, though, and decided enough was enough. I had other things to think about – to worry about – then some spoiled, pampered brat who was acting the fool because he didn't get what he wanted. I had bigger things to worry about than Draco Malfoy. The event that would mark the change of things between us was in April, about three months after the winter break of our sixth year. Draco had cornered me at a time I had been walking around alone – which hadn't been an uncommon thing that year – obviously prepared for another of our fights. I, on the other hand, wasn't going to let it happen again.